


The Serenity of Suffering

by GoodGollyMissYollie (Yollie183)



Series: Ride The Lightning [7]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, Explicit Language, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-24
Updated: 2016-11-24
Packaged: 2018-09-01 23:32:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8642530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yollie183/pseuds/GoodGollyMissYollie
Summary: Steve Rogers works for a discreet private security company and gets assigned to James Barnes, a musician who takes the idea of 'sex, drugs and rock 'n roll' just a little too seriously.***THIS IS A COMPANION WORK TO Goddamn Electric ***





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! So, I asked the wonderful people who are reading my fic [Goddamn Electric](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6756670/chapters/15441367) if they wanted scenes from Bucky's POV, and this is that!  
> Please go read that if you haven't yet, this won't make sense out of context (sorry!)
> 
> Title from the album of the same name by Korn.

_Te vinnig, te veel_

_Ek sal al my beloftes breek, as jy my net 'n kans kan gee._

_Wie sal vir my liefde maak?_

_Wie sal vir my liefde maak?_

_As die somer so lekker is, hoekom voel ek so fuck't?_

_Ek skyn,_

_Ek skyn heilig, onder die straat lig_

_Onder die maan lig_

_Sê vir my as die rewolusie verby is_

_\- Ek Skyn (Heilig), Fokofpolisiekar_

_~_

_So automatisch_

_Du bist wie ‘ne Maschine_

_Dein Herz schlägt nicht für mich_

_So automatisch_

_Berühren mich_

_Deine Hände_

_Spür alles, nur nicht dich_

_So automatisch_

_Deine Stimme – elektrisch_

_Wo bist du, wenn sie spricht?_

_Wie automatisch_

_Renn ich durch alle Straßen_

_Und keine führt zu dir_

_Wie automatisch_

_Folgen mir deine Schatten_

_Und greifen kalt nach mir_

_Du bist wie_

_Ferngesteuert_

_Statisch und_

_Mechanisch_

_So automatisch_

_Wenn du lachst_

_Lachst du nicht_

_Wenn du weinst_

_Weinst du nicht_

_Wenn du fühlst_

_Fühlst du nichts_

_Weil du ohne Liebe bist_

_(Du bist)_

_Automatisch_

_Nur automatisch_

_Automatisch_

_So automatisch_

_Dein Blick so leer_

_Ich kann nicht mehr_

_Alles an dir_

_Wie einstudiert_

_Du stehst vor mir_

_Und warst nie wirklich hier_

_\- Automatisch, Tokio Hotel_

_~_

 

Bucky let his fingers pluck softly at the strings of the guitar on his lap, the notes dissonant and cold, as he stared at the bodyguard perched on a stool in the corner of the studio, his head tipped back, his eyes closed.

Something hot and sharp twisted in Bucky’s chest. He’d told Steve about Pierce, and instead of rushing away in disgust, he’d looked at Bucky fiercely, already formulating plans for _helping_ him instead of leaving him to deal with his own shit. It was a strange feeling. Not even at his most sweet and caring did Wade ever attempt to do anything about Pierce, knowing that too much was at stake, and how terrible the consequences might be.

Steve’s blue eyes opened and he looked toward Bucky, who didn’t look away, even though that same burning shard wrung through his ribcage once more. Then Steve looked away and Bucky let his eyes settle unseeingly on Roland.

 

Steve told him he was forfeiting his days off and Bucky felt suddenly like crying. He hurried away from Steve, inwardly cursing himself. He was letting his problems become problems for Steve as well. The bodyguard spent so much time with Bucky, which Bucky knew must get unbearable, he deserved some time to himself, to spend with the friends Bucky had met only briefly while drunk, but still seemed like amazing people.

Bucky punched the tiled wall of the shower, telling himself he deserved the ache in his knuckles for what he was doing to Steve. He deserved a lot more for allowing himself to be in Steve’s proximity. The other man was too pure, to downright good to be in any way associated with someone like Bucky. After his scorching hot shower, he pulled a wooden box from under his bed. He opened it to regard its contents, then slammed the lid shut, disgusted with himself for craving the sharp sting of the needle, the swooping feeling of the heroin. He shoved the box back under his bed, and let his head drop into his hands. If Steve could be good, truly good, without effort, then Bucky could try not to make him angry again. Disappoint him again. He still remembered the look in Steve’s eyes the morning after Pierce left, when he’d walked in on Bucky shooting up. The anger, the disappointment and the pain in his eyes, the slight pout of his bottom lip, the flush in his cheeks. Bucky hadn’t been too high to notice, only too high to check his thoughts the way he constantly found himself doing in Steve’s presence. Bucky was terrified of letting Steve see too much of the mess inside his head. It would break something fragile and precious that could never be repaired.

Finally, with Herculean effort, Bucky got up, kicked the box deeper under his bed and got dressed.

The days passed and Bucky found himself opening the box less and less often. It was both blissful and torturous. His body clamored loudly, painfully, for the narcotics, his mind becoming a minefield of anguished memories without the heroin to numb him. If Steve noticed, he didn’t say anything, but Bucky reminded himself of Steve’s anger every time he felt that familiar itch under his skin. It worked about half the time, but sometimes Bucky’s craving would overpower his rationalizing and he’d find himself on the floor next to his bed, the needle in his arm, his screaming mind silenced as if by a gunshot.

 

Then it was music video day. Bucky hated videos, hated being filmed, hated being told how to act. It was one of the reasons he agreed to wear the mask, even though he hated the mask more than any of the rest of it.

 

He followed Wade into a trailer for hair and make-up, sitting still as a girl with pretty floral tattoos down her copper-skinned arms applied his eyeliner and ruffled his hair around his face. He stripped with no thought for the people around him and let the girl tug his pants and shirt so they were just right. She lifted the tac vest out of his bag and her eyes went wide.

“Is this real?” she asked, giving it a little shake. “It doesn’t look like any prop I’ve ever seen.”

“Yeah,” Bucky muttered, lifting his arm so she could strap it over his chest. “It’s Russian, standard issue to SVR agents.”

The girl made a low sound, tightening the strap across Bucky’s chest.

Lastly came the mask. The girl frowned at it. “How does this stay on?”

Bucky took it from her without answering and closed his eyes as he fitted it to his jaw. It was tight, clamping around the bone like a vice. He could barely talk, barely breath through the tiny gaps in the mesh. His eyes caught his reflection in the mirror and he shuddered.

He left the trailer as fast as he could, hoping the fresh air outside would filter through the mask more easily than the powdery, stale air inside.

It helped, but not much, and he made his way over to Steve and Sharon, wishing the whole thing over and wishing for a goddamn needle.

He looked over at Steve, who was staring back at him, and felt his chest constrict. Steve’s eyes were wide, his lips parted slightly, his cheeks stained pink. Bucky recognized that expression, had seen it on too many faces. Lust. But for the first time in his life, the way his stomach bottomed out and his mouth went dry and his heart stuttered wasn’t caused by disgust. The feeling – _desire_ – rocked through Bucky so swift and intense he gasped in shock behind his mask. He dragged his gaze away from Steve’s face, lest he do something stupid like kiss him breathless.

The feeling unsettled Bucky. He’d never felt it, had never wished for the feeling of someone’s hands on his skin, someone’s breath on his lips, someone’s body over his, but now, he wanted all those things, wanted _Steve_ and it terrified him.

Bucky went through the motions for the video, swallowed down the bile that rose in his throat as his arms were strapped to the chair. He bit hard on the inside of his cheek to keep the memories from surfacing. The copper tang of blood on his tongue made him feel a little ill.

He talked and joked with Tessa, the actress, while they waited for the set to be arranged for the next sequence of the video. From the corner of his eye he saw Steve answer his phone, smiling a mile wide. He watched Steve talk and laugh, could read lips well enough to make out the ‘ _I love you_ ’ at the end. His brain short-circuited. Had Steve been lying all this time about not having a boyfriend? Had Bucky seen the signs and dismissed them in the drug-induced haze of his mind? It stung, and Bucky scowled as he forced the mask back over his face. Steve deserved to be happy, deserved to be loved by someone as good and wholesome as Steve himself was.

_There you go, Jimmy. Even if he was single, you would only tarnish him, make him dirty, like you._

Bucky shuddered, shutting off as they shot the rest of the video. His mind spat vitriol at him, all the way back to New York. He stayed silent, not wanting to talk to Steve, make him angry, disappoint him. And he definitely didn’t want to ask Steve and hear the truth about the phone call. Remaining in limbo was the best option for everyone, he decided, even as Steve gave him questioning glances.

Even so, his thoughts continued to fixate on the way Steve had looked at him, at the way his pupils had dilated, at the way his breath seemed to catch. Every time the mental image popped up, Bucky felt the residual echoes of his own reaction filter through his nervous system.

Finally, back in his own house, Bucky made to flee upstairs, his thoughts torn between Steve and the box under his bed, the itch back under his skin, this time accompanied by heat pooling low in his abdomen, and he knew if he could just reach the box before facing Steve, everything would be okay.

“Bucky.” The word resonated strangely in Bucky’s ears. He spun around to face Steve, wanting nothing more than escaping to his box and his needle and his heroin. Steve’s lips parted to form more words, and something in Bucky’s chest snapped. Like a guitar string under too much stress, coming apart, cutting through flesh, drawing blood. He reached out, fingers seeking and finding the warm skin over Steve’s cheekbones. He leaned closer and kissed Steve, ignoring the voice screaming in his head –

_You’re making him filthy, Jimmy, you’re staining him_

\- as the taste of Steve overwhelmed him. He licked into Steve’s mouth, pressing him back against the wall, trembling in awe as Steve kissed him back. Steve kissed him back. Steve was touching him, his hands on Bucky’s skin and Bucky realized this was wrong. Steve was good. Too good, too pure. Bucky was damaging that. With a surge of self-hatred, Bucky pulled away.

“Get out.”

Bucky rubbed at his lips, his thoughts a litany of _what have you done?_ that drowned out even the harsh cacophony of the voice screaming _Jimmy_ over and over at him. He scrubbed harder, undeserving of the sweet taste Steve lingering on his tongue.

“Get the fuck out of my house, right now.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> See y'all in January!
> 
> *  
> *  
> *   
> Just kidding! (Maybe. Hopefully.) 
> 
> Thank you for reading!   
> To yell at me and call me an asshole (or to say nice things and talk about Stucky or music or cupcakes), find me on [tumblr](http://yollie183.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/Yollie183)


End file.
